


Deeds, New Jersey

by DixieDale



Series: The U.N.C.L.E. Agent's Cautionary Guide To Travel [3]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Girl From Uncle, The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:30:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Cornerstone House, Deeds, New Jersey.  Where your past actions are weighed and judged, not just by whatever power that dwelt in that old building, but also by yourself.  Others had entered, been judged, failed in that judging.  Would the first female agent for UNCLE's New York Headquarters be destroyed as they had been, or would she, and her partner Mark Slate, succeed where others had failed?  Would they survive to make the first entry for Deeds, New Jersey in that little travel guide the UNCLE agents relied on, or would someone else have to put the pieces together and undertake that little task?





	Deeds, New Jersey

Deeds, New Jersey, USA  
≈ç Overall Rating - Acceptable, Use Caution  
≈+ Food - Mildred's Tea Shop - Quite Acceptable  
≈+ Food - Hanover Inn - Quite Acceptable  
≈ Drink - Sparky's Coffee and Wine Bar - Acceptable  
≈HC Lodging - Hanover Inn - Acceptable, Homey, Clean  
Ω Attractions: Cornerstone House and Museum - Supernatural Presence, Not Overtly Malevolent But Highly  
Negative and Judgemental. Do not test! Avoidance Highly Recommended  
¶ Here Be Dragons!

 

Prologue:  
He, Miles Danaher, hated her, the 'her' being April Dancer, first female agent in Headquarters, New York. He hated her as an individual, and as a agent. He hated the whole idea. Females as agents, really! The whole idea was ludicrous, just like a few others stunts Alexander Waverly had come up with. If the Committee had as much sense as they should have, Waverly would never had been put in charge of the New York Headquarters. Someone else should have held that position, someone without all those foolish, dangerous, modern ideas. 

He wasn't any too thrilled with that partner of hers either. Oh, Mr. Slate was young, talented; would probably grow into a good agent in time; he was willing enough, seemed teachable. Well, WOULD have grown into a good agent, except for letting himself get sucked into the whole idea of partnering with April Dancer. Now, it was like the young man LIKED the idea, was HAPPY about the whole thing, had turned down opportunities to partner with someone else, which only proved there was something flawed in the young man in the first place. 

He'd tried to prevent the Dancer woman from ever reaching agent status. His connections at the Survival School should have let him do that, but somehow she kept passing all the tests, even excelling at most of them. He didn't know how she'd managed that; it had to have been rigged, though he couldn't figure out how. 

It was almost as annoying as when that pesky Russian had come in and swept the boards, even equalled some of Solo's records. Now there was another annoyance that ate at his insides. He knew Waverly had pulled strings, maybe tampered with the results in both cases; there was just no other explanation for either of those two, the woman OR the Russian, making it through training. Psych should have given the thumbs-down even if none of the other areas had had the balls.

He'd managed to get hold of the files of her past assignments, had picked up on various mistakes, flaws, brought them to his old friend's attention, but Alexander Waverly had been more lenient than he should have been. Of course, Waverly denied that, said it was just a matter of her needing seasoning, experience, and making mistakes was just part of the process. Just like the Old Man made excuses for the Russian. Just like him to keep waving away the sound advice Danaher kept giving him.

Finally he'd gone around Waverly, straight to the Psych people. Of course, they weren't supposed to talk to him about those sessions, the psych debriefing, if you will, that followed each assignment. And, truly, most didn't; most didn't even seem to realize he was probing for information. So much for their 'professional expertise'! But he had a friend, Juliette, who worked in that area, who felt about things pretty much the same way he did, who was unhappy about those two, the female, the Russian, being in The U.N.C.L.E. in the first place. Just like they both hated that nonsense of calling their illustrious organization 'UNCLE' instead of either using the whole name 'The United Network Command For Law and Enforcement', or at least calling it 'The U.N.C.L.E.' as the seriousness warranted. {"UNCLE'!! Give me a freaking break!! We are a world wide law enforcement organization engaged in a life and death struggle to defeat evil, not your father's sad-sack brother from Milwaukee!"}

Well, there had been something in that female's last couple of assignment files, in her psych reports, that gave him an idea she wasn't quite as comfortable with some of her own actions as she tried to pretend. Now, that was something he might be able to work with.

His smile grew as he remembered Jack Macon, a rookie agent who'd come back from an assignment a few years ago, never made it out of Psych at all, went totally batshit on them. There had been something in the preliminary report, something his friend had thought very interesting about the place where that assignment, and the agent, had all fallen to pieces. 

Just to test it, Miles had sent a trainee, someone he knew would never make the grade anyway. Well, he wasn't going to risk someone who just might make a good agent on an experiment. He was loyal to The U.N.C.L.E., loyal to the core, more than most of those half-committed types in the organization!

He and his friend had even followed along, though not going inside the building, of course, just waited outside til the trainee, or what was left of him, crawled out, whimpering like a lost child. A private place, a private debriefing, and they had a lovely little ace in the hole, should they ever need it. Deeds, New Jersey - the old Cornerstone House - their own private testing grounds, or to be perhaps a little more honest, their own disposal unit, a place to eliminate permanently those unfit to serve. 

No record of that little training exercise, or any of the ones following that, ever went into the official records, either. Just why a trainee or agent or one of the interdepartmental employees occasionally went off the rails and became a babbling puddle of goo, no one ever figured out.

Anyway, just as that little tidbit from the Psych prelim report on Jack Macon had never made it into the final report, it certainly had never made it into that silly Guide all the agents seemed intent on adding to, so there was no way Dancer would know what really lay in store in Deeds, New Jersey. Though she soon would, if he could somehow find a way to arrange it. 

{"Hmmm, perhaps she AND that partner of hers. I imagine he's pretty well ruined as an agent anyway."}

He toyed with the idea of somehow sending her and the Russian together, "two birds with one stone", but pushed that idea aside. The Russian was too hardened, had to be what with his background; the experience probably wouldn't phase him. But the woman? She was a female, weaker by nature, by nuture. He was still convinced she'd somehow cheated her way through Survival School, KNEW Waverly had made it easier on her, that her partner took up the slack on the assignments. Yes, SHE could be handled by one simple shift in assignments. And from what he'd heard about Mark Slate, he simply didn't have the depth to take up the slack on THIS one, not enough to affect the outcome.

All he had to do now was to wait for the proper alignment of the players, wait til Waverly was away for awhile, where the Old Man couldn't interfere, when Dancer and Slate were available for an assignment. Then he could make his move.

 

The Assignment:

"What do you think Danaher wants? Don't think he's spoken two words to either of us since we arrived here," Mark Slate asked his partner, April Dancer, as they made their way though the maze of corridors that made up the New York Headquarters of The United Network Command For Law And Enforcement, or UNCLE, as pretty much everyone except a few stick-up-their-arse diehards called it.

"He said there was an assignment that Mr. Waverly had intended to brief us on before he left for Milan, but his schedule was moved up and he hadn't had time. I would have thought it would have been Napoleon's task, but perhaps he and Illya aren't back in full operational mode yet. I know they both took some damage in that Madrid job."

"Maybe we'll have time to look in on them before we head out for whatever this new thing is. May even be local. Wouldn't mind that; we've been back and forth so much lately, my internal clock doesn't have a clue what time it's supposed to be on. Find myself wanting my elevenses at three in the morning." 

He blinked as they rounded a corner and entered another elevator, "where are we headed, luv? Waverly's office is in the other direction."

"Yes, but Miles Danaher's assistant said he's too busy to make the trek to Waverly's office; we're to meet him in that little conference room near the West file room. You'd think his own office would be better, but his assistant got a little stroppy when I questioned her, so here we are in the far abodes known only to the file clerks, the janitorial service, and probably Napoleon Solo."

They shared a laugh about their friend and senior agent, who seemed to know every discreet place in the building to hold a dalliance.

One more corner and they tapped on a closed door, hearing a gruff, "well, come in, don't waste time standing out there!" They rolled their eyes in unison, then plastered polite looks of inquiry on their faces before they headed in through the door to take their seats opposite Miles Danaher.

"Well, I'll get right to it. You have an assignment and you need to leave immediately. Have either of you ever been to Deeds, New Jersey?" Getting negative headshakes from the two, he continued, "well, not much reason for you to have, I suppose. Still, that's where you're headed. We've had a report of a minor Thrust presence there that needs confirmation. Nothing definite, of course, but we can't afford to overlook anything that close by."

He passed over two file folders, the two young agents opening them to scan the contents then looking up at him expectantly. Danaher frowned, "I'd pay a bit more attention to that file if I were you. I don't want them leaving this room with you. Yes, yes, I know Alexander Waverly permits that, but frankly, with him away, I'm just not comfortable doing the same." He sighed in exasperation at their youth and inattention to details, but deigned to continue the briefing.

"Cornerstone House, in Deeds. It's a Preservation House-cum-Museum, originally built by a Nathaniel Brooks in the late 1800's. It has limited hours of operation, which I suppose could be to Thrush's advantage since there aren't a great many people wandering in and out all the time, but still, no one would take undue notice of some activity."

April inquired, "a museum, sir? Of what nature?"

She got an annoyed frown at the interruption, "oh, for heaven's sake, Miss Dancer! Just how relevant is that likely to be? Things Nathaniel Brooks had collected, things his sons and grandsons had collected, all manner of things! Now, can I get back to business? If you don't mind??"

{"Annoying bastard, he is,"} Mark thought. {"And she's right to ask. It could be important; if nothing else, let us put together a decent cover, someone with a like interest, a fellow collector, something like that."}. 

You wouldn't have been able to tell his thoughts by the patient look on his face, but April had to suppress a smile at that slight twitch under his jaw. She knew her partner quite well by now. Or so she thought.

"Now, as I was saying, Cornerstone House. We'll need you to get inside, take a good look around. Our information indicates there might be something of special interest on the third floor, the East Wing, so you might make that a priority. You will report to me directly, no one else. I'm far too aware of how quickly rumors and idle gossip seem to be getting around these days; didn't used to be the case, but I suppose it's to be expected," giving April a rather firm glare, as if her mere presence in these halls had led to a severe breakdown of discipline. 

"You'll leave immediately; no time for lollygagging around or farewell teas. Now, take another good look at those files; I'll have my assistant here in ten minutes to collect them," and he bustled out the door, obviously having more important places to be, more important people to deal with.

"Well, he's (a jolly soul)," Mark started to say, but a warning flick of her finger told him to belay any negative comments, so he substituted "probably right. Best take a good look at the file while we have the chance."

{"Well, she's probably right, about watching my tongue. Wouldn't put it past him to be listening at the keyhole,"} and they focused on reading the report, reading, paying attention to it all, but memorizing it word by word as they'd done on previous occasions, him the first half, her the last half. They'd compare notes once they got in more secure surroundings.

A pursed-lipped brunette with a disapproving look on her face bustled in exactly ten minutes after Danaher had departed, held out a strict hand for the folders, flipped through both to be sure they hadn't removed anything, and left without a word. 

April had whispered to Mark, once they were a good three corridors away, "lovely couple, don't you think? Warm, friendly, compassionate! So much in common!" Mark gave her a cheeky grin of agreement.

"So, Danaher said immediately. You grab the travel packets, I'll go get the car . . . "

"No, let's drop in on Napoleon and Illya in the Med Unit first. I want to see how they're doing, and I'll tell you, Mark, I don't have a warm, fuzzy feeling about this whole assignment. I think we'd be better off having someone we trust knowing where we're headed, don't you?"

He gave her a skeptical look, "if you wanted a chance to flirt with those two, you could have just said so, luv."

She gurgled at him in amusement, but shook her head, "and if I did, I would have just said so, Mark darling. No, I meant what I said; this doesn't feel right, and having just Miles Danaher at our back doesn't give me the level of confidence I'd prefer."

Mark shrugged, but he too was anxious to see how their friends were progressing, and he had to admit she had a point about Danaher. He sure wouldn't want to run a mission in the field with the man at his side. He'd take his own partner any day of the week, over most any other in the field, and certainly over Miles Danaher.

 

Deeds, New Jersey:

"April, wake up, I think we're there. Deeds, New Jersey - looks like a nice, quiet, clean place. Nothing like our little tour of the Argentine slums our last trip out. Let's get our bearings, locate Cornerstone House, see if they have their hours posted, then find a place to spend the night."

April yawned behind a polite hand; the drive had been easy enough, once they got out of the heavy traffic, but there was something about the air that made her sleepy. Perhaps it was that it was so much cooler than the heated city they'd left behind, maybe it was the heavy scent of pine in the air.

It wasn't difficult locating Cornerstone House; a stop at a small tea shop and a little conversation with the friendly owner, Mildred, had given up that information without hesitation. 

"Don't know how they keep it going, you know, with as few that seems to go there. Suppose the family left funds to keep it running. They were real powerful in these parts, you know, all the money in the world - lumber barons back farther than the town has been here."

The plump middle-aged woman had chatted to them off and on as she took their order, then brought their chicken-salad sandwiches and tea, then the rich egg creams to finish. The food was quite good, the woman pleased with their compliments, and they left feeling replete with both nourishment and useful information.

A slow casual stroll past the sturdy three story brick building, easily the largest they'd seen so far in this town, and a quick reading of the sign on the door told them that the House and Museum were open Tuesdays and Fridays, 1 to 4 pm, only. 

Well, since today was Thursday, mid-afternoon, and since they'd decided to go in as actual tourists, at least at first, that left them with the rest of the day and tomorrow morning to get their bearings. Perhaps they'd actually act like tourists for a change; they didn't get much of a chance to do things like that, no matter how much they traveled. It might be a nice change of pace.

Based on a recommendation from Mildred, they'd driven six blocks over to locate the Hanover Inn, and found the bright and cheerful Jennie at the front desk more than pleased to set them up with a room for Mr. and Mrs. Bell. The organization DID like to keep incidental expenses down, and while there had been a minor protest from a few of the old timers at the idea of Mark and April sharing accommodations, well, the other partners usually did so, indeed were required to do so, and eventually everyone got their feathers smoothed back down again.

A pleasant dinner at the inn, another little stroll around the surprisingly agreeable town, a few casual conversations with the owner of the antique shop where April had made an impulse purchase of a lovely quilt of unusual design, and the waiter at the small coffee and wine cafe where they'd shared a carafe of a pleasant white wine and a small bowl of salted nuts, and a few others, and their bonafides were established. They were simply a young couple, not long married, who were taking a belated wedding trip, nothing elaborate, just a little car trip as their work schedules permitted.

The next morning followed the same pattern, and it was after a light meal of toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup at Mildred's Tea Shop that they finally headed to Cornerstone House. There were four other visitors, but the attendant was more interested in reading his MotorHome Life magazine than in making himself of service or offering explanations no one really wanted to hear, so everyone wandered freely. There was a velvet rope separating off the small staircase to the third floor, and when no one was looking, Mark and April quickly ducked under and took a look around.

"Seems much like the rest, luv, some decent antiques, some interesting pieces on the shelves and in the cases, mostly Egyptian stuff from the looks of it, on this floor anyways, but nothing worth keeping this part separate that I can see," Mark puzzled.

April was taking a closer look at the back wall of the room they were in. "Perhaps out here, but what about over there? Do the proportions of that side of the bookcase seem a little off to you?"

"That they do, and not only that, this scuff mark on the floor? If you mark a line in your mind from the edge of that far side? Move that footstool out of the way, I'll roll up the rug."

It took some twisting of finials and poking at rosettes, but before long, the rosette with the slight tinge of green snapped downward under Mark's searching fingertips, and they stepped back as the far bookcase swung forward, scraping the floor just a little. 

"Hope no one heard that," April whispered, conscious of the slight grating the movement had made. The pencil light they'd each carried came in handy, at least til they made their way through, since the bookcase swung closed after them as soon as they were clear. That got them an uneasy feeling, to say the least, and they took a moment to see if they could spot the 'out' button. Well, that wasn't hard to do; there was actually a small matching rosette, again marked in green, and a quick trial told them that was indeed what they'd need to use when departing. They couldn't afford to spend too much time wandering now, though they were prepared to return after hours to make a more detailed search.

"Did you notice how this part seems bigger than the whole of the other floors put together?" Mark asked, taking a good look around, and April had to admit it had seemed that way to her as well. Nonsense, of course, but just somehow this supposedly small portion of the upper floor seemed huge. She'd have thought they'd perhaps passed into an adjoining building, except there weren't any. Cornerstone House sat in lone majesty on a corner lot, with nothing else within at least a hundred yards, and they were on the third floor, not in the basement where such might actually be a possibility.

"There, that doorway. Where does it lead, do you suppose?" They'd seen nothing out of the ordinary so far, even behind that secret entrance, nothing to justify thinking Thrush had set up shop here. Nothing out of the ordinary . . .

The fog that enveloped them as they made their way through that door painted with a pattern of overlapping feathers was more than a little unnerving. The thought struck them at the same time, that it might be one of the nerve agents Thrush seemed so fond of using, but they didn't feel any ill effects other than the diminished visibility.

Then the fog dissipated, revealing a tall throne of white stone blocks, the back seeming made of carved ostrich feathers, so similar to the ones on that door they'd passed through. A figure slowly appeared, a regal dark-haired woman dressed in a draped garment of rusty red. Her crimson lips didn't move, but words filled the air, carefully neutral, as were her dark kohl-lined eyes.

"You have come to give witness to your actions and to be judged and to receive your proper recompense. So be it."

Somehow that pronouncement didn't make them any more comfortable than did the stone vat of boiling, sputtering oil to one side, or the various instruments of torture laid out at the ready, nor the benches with all those straps. Somehow the woman seemed the judgemental type, leaning toward the negative. They couldn't see any hint of a positive reward. That simply did not bode well.

In the still air in front of their frozen bodies, visions appeared, and they each learned more about themselves, certainly more about each other, than they might have known before. Somehow, actions that had seemed fairly innocent back then took on a more nuanced feel, while actions that had been rather callous and unfeeling at the time now seemed damning indeed. 

Mark swallowed hard when he saw April shoot Harry Priestly, could see her heart and knew that hadn't been a mis-shot, but some cold laying out of retribution for the humiliation and pain and damages Priestly had caused him, her partner. 

April was equally dismayed to realize some of Mark's actions had been a little less unstudied, a little more self-serving than she'd previously thought. That on at least one or two occasions he had clearly placed her wellbeing above some considered at least partially innocent had been an eye-opener and had shaken her.

Surprisingly, neither were given a replay of the Portersville incident; perhaps it was that they really hadn't had any control of the events of that night, who knows. 

Still, there was more than enough, enough to cause them each to feel considerable dismay, both at their own clear understanding of those hard truths about themselves and their motives, as well as those of their partner, and the fact that their partner had also witnessed those scenes from the past.

"You have seen - you know you have fallen short, both of my expectations and of your own. Now will you face my judgement . . ."

And another figure appeared, this one also a woman, but clad in a tunic and flowing skirt, ribbons flowing from the fan dangling at her waist, and from the crested headdress she wore. From the way she was quickly plaiting her long damp red hair, she'd been caught rather unprepared for making visits, though she seemed remarkably unruffled by the necessity.

"Hold, please. Respectfully I must tell you, Maat, these are not under your reign. They are subject to MY judgement, not yours." Then a wry grin came to the pleasant, though not beautiful face, "well, SHE is subject to my judgement, and he comes with the territory, it would seem. It is often so, in my experience, with the daughters of the Clan."

For the first time there was some emotion showing on the face of the seated woman, recognition certainly, perhaps mild annoyance, though there was more than a trace of amusement as well. Now her painted lips moved with her words, which Mark thought was an improvement.

"They came into my territory, Erdu. Why would they do so if they did not seek judgement? Perhaps they sought my judgement in order to AVOID yours." The agents were confused at the almost teasing tone to Maat's voice.

"Oh, come now, Maat. You know how foolish these humans can be, even the best of them, always poking their noses where they have no business to be. But as for these two, and perhaps a few others who entered your space, there was mischief intended. Mischief, even malice, though not by them. They were sent here by a secret enemy of theirs, for you to destroy. Yes, they are come into your territory, but if I were you, I would not be so eager to be a puppet for some upstart human who thinks to use you and your majesty and your power to achieve his own twisted ends. Rather insulting, don't you think? I mean, if I am to be cozened and manipulated by a human, I want it to be to rather different ends, you know? So much more pleasant and rewarding!" that grin turning into surprisingly attractive mixture of sheer mischief and suggestive intent.

Maat actually rolled her eyes at her old friend, before she realized she needed to maintain her dignity, even if Erdu wasn't going to. 

Now, Maat seemed to almost pout, though it was clearly a pretense. "Well, but you have witnessed their deeds, Erdu. Do YOU condone what they have done? Surely . . ."

"Please, Maat, don't call me 'Shirley'!" 

The agents looked just as bewildered as Maat did, even more at the not-quite-a-giggle that came from the redhead called Erdu.

"Yes, I know, I apologize. I was being silly; I was reading a script for a movie the other day, some foolish thing someone of the humans is considering making, and that line just struck me as funny." She cleared her throat, though the remnants of a grin stayed on her face. "Oh, never mind; you probably had to be there."

"Anyway, first, the time of their judging is not yet at hand, though I will get around to it in due course. And, secondly, my Code of Conduct is quite a bit different than yours, you know. That is why you adopted those YOU did, and why I adopted the Shantai. Oh, there are similarities, in some respects, but in many ways, what you expect and what I expect are quite different. And she IS of the Shantai, if of a rather remote connection. Still, it is enough for her to bear many of their characteristics, their ways, and to have a valid claim on my regard. Now, how about we shoo these two youngsters on their way, now that they have satisfied their curiosity and know these 'Thrushies' they seek are not to be found here? Children, you might wish to know that the one who sent you has a friend, sweet Juliette. It was her rummaging around in your file, April, that gave him the idea of sending you two on this little excursion. Don't neglect her, my dear."

"Now, Maat, you and I haven't had a good chat for a long time, you know. Why don't we do that, perhaps have a glass of wine, or maybe a nip from my bourbon flask?" patting an object that had just appeared at her waist. "I've developed a fancy for it, though I could conjure up some honey'd mead if you prefer. Though I hope you have a cushion for that side throne; carved stone looks regal and all that, but it's not overly comfortable, if I remember correctly. Have you ever considered a wicker one instead? I know this wonderful craftsman in Palmyra who makes the most lovely ones; could even replicate those pretty feathers of yours across the back."

Maat seemed to consider, then sighed heavily and gave in. "Oh, very well! Perhaps I'll get a chance to use the burning oil and pincers and all the rest some other time. Perhaps on this mischief-maker who sent them?"

"Perhaps. Oh, and I think it would be good of you to let them browse through your little collection, take what belonged to their compatriots who were sent here before. Just a little gesture to add to the good side of your OWN balance, eh? You and I, we will each face our own Judgement, in our own time, remember."

So a bemused Mark and April found themselves sorting through a pile of items, gathering the communicators and pocket contents of Jack Macon and Lin Chow and Dennis Fairfax and Cory Deavers and James Hawkins and Titabu Mumbula and Lyle Connery, all affiliated in some way with UNCLE. Some were deceased, some had just disappeared, at least one was still in an UNCLE facility but knowing not even his own name. It was more than a little sobering to realize just how many of their compatriots had met their downfall in this room. It didn't lighten their mood to know just how close they had come to joining their number.

They made their way out and down, past the still unconcerned attendant, and back to the car, to sit, side by side, staring ahead for a short while. It was April who broke the silence, flipping open her communictor. 

"Open Channel J, Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin direct. Yes, I'll wait."

It wasn't but a minute, no more, when Illya's voice came over the air.

"Kuryakin here."

"Illya, it was a set-up. The one who sent us, though it appears he had help from someone named Juliette, probably in Medical, Psych area. And Illya, it wasn't just us. I am looking at communicators, ID cards, various other bits and pieces for others of us." It was with a grim voice she related the names, all seven of them."

"April, are you and Mark alright?" That was Napoleon Solo's anxious voice; he'd been delayed just a few seconds longer than Illya, but had caught most of that report.

Mark spoke up for the first time, "right enough, but it was a close thing, Napoleon. If nothing else, I now know where we can find a vat of boiling oil to drop Mr. Miles Danaher and his Juliette into."

Now a third voice came through the air, first an uncomfortable cough, then "most understandable, I'm sure, Mr. Slate, but there are other, more established methods of dealing with such matters. Since the two in question have been most vocal about clinging to the good old-fashioned reliable ways of doing things, I think we should humor them. May I expect to see you in my office in the morning? 7:00 AM, if you would, and please be prompt. I look forward to receiving your full report."

The two young agents exchanged a wry look. Yes, Mr. Waverly was back, obviously.

The communicator sparked again, "oh, and well done, the pair of you. I am most pleased you were able to avoid that burning oil, you know. We've invested a lot in you two; hate for it all to go to waste."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison, sharing a grin, as they disconnected.

"Think that's as close as I'm likely to get to a compliment from him, you know, April. Must remember to put that in my diary," Mark quipped.

April laughed, but then her face grew serious.

"Mark, let's head out as soon as we pick up our things. I don't think I want to spend the night here, and we don't want to be late for that meeting. We could get back to my flat tonight, have dinner there, maybe order in Chinese?"

He looked over at her, trying to find the right words, settling for the easiest, "we could do that, if you still WANT me at your flat." He was very aware of everything she'd seen and heard, of what she knew that she hadn't perhaps before.

She smiled wryly, knowing his thoughts. Well, he'd seen a few unsettling things about her as well.

"I do, partner mine, if you want to be there. And I think we have some things to discuss, you and I, about the road ahead."

It would not be an easy discussion in many respects, including just who 'Erdu' was and why she had interceded on their behalf. In fact, that would probably be the easier part of the discussion, especially since all April really knew was that Erdu was the Patroness, for lack of a better word, of her mother's distant family. As for why she had elected to intervene now for April when she never had before? Perhaps it was the involvement of Maat, a matter of boundaries, who knew? Neither of the partners really cared, not considering the results.

As for the rest? They each had, in some ways, kept blinders on, both about each other and themselves. Would they change their prior actions if they could? Perhaps, perhaps not. April knew Harry Priestly would still be dead, without a doubt. Would they change their future actions based on what they had seen? Maybe, maybe not. But no longer would they try to hide, either from themselves or from their partner. Either they would accept what they were, stand shoulder to shoulder and continue to support each other, or they would not. There would probably be pain, either way. But at least, whichever way they chose, they would be doing it with open eyes.

 

April's Apartment:

The Chinese food had been devoured to the last grain of rice, the expensive bourbon portioned out perhaps more cautiously, him looking at her with a goodly measure of puzzled disbelief. Well, she'd always served him wine, maybe beer. Now, she pulled out that hidden bottle of the good stuff and tipped it out freely once again.

"Bourbon, April??! Not your usual tipple."

She'd grinned, wryly. She no longer intended to have secrets from him, her partner, and the taste for a good bourbon she'd developed during her visit with her far-distant cousin Caeide was just one in a string of things he would just have to get accustomed to. Well, if he was going to stick around, and she hoped with a great intensity that he was going to.

"Actually, Mark, I've had a taste for good bourbon since I was in my mid-teens. Seems most of my mother's family have a weakness for it. It just never seemed to be the kind of thing . . ." Suddenly she felt a bit shy about continuing.

Somehow the knowing nod had told her he'd understood, "not what most would expect, accept from April Dancer, either as an individual or as an agent? Not the kind of thing you thought I would understand, maybe accept? And now, it's changed, hasn't it?" His gaze moved from wry to serious and then apprehensive. 

"And now . . ." His voice was wandered off, becoming distant, thready, waiting for her response. Well, he had his own fears, after all. She'd seen more than a few of his own weaknesses, his own failings and compromises.

Her response came, if a trifle hesitant.

"And now, we know more about each other. Though, I think maybe what we know is only the start of what we should know, need to know. That is, if you want to continue, being partners, I mean." 

Her look was totally open, letting him know that the choice was his. That she was accepting of him, but knew he might not feel the same in return. That she WANTED to continue being partners was also clear, though he wasn't sure how that could be. Maat hadn't been hesitant about showing him in all his weaknesses, all his faults.

"You saw . . ." He didn't know how to continue.

"As did you. I don't know about you, but as unsettling as that whole thing was, in many ways it was a relief. It would be good to have one person to be completely honest with. What say you, Mark? Are we still partners? Is that what you want? Or do we go to Mr. Waverly when this is all over and tell him it's not going to work out?" Her eyes were painfully honest, waiting for him to make a decision. 

He wondered just how to express what he felt. Suddenly it wasn't all that difficult, really not at all.

"What do I want? I want one of those chocolate brownies I know you keep on hand in the freezer. I want another shot of that bourbon. And I want you - as my partner. Of all my wants at the moment, that pretty well fills the bill."

She laughed then, sheer relief in her voice, in her face. "One pan of brownies coming up, along with bourbon on the side. And as for the rest? I can't imagine anything I want more, darling!"

 

U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters

He, Miles Danaher, hated her, 'her' being April Dancer. He hated her as an individual, and as a agent. He hated the whole idea. Females as agents, really! The whole idea was ludicrous, just like a few others Alexander Waverly had come up with. 

He couldn't believe it when he heard the gossip, that the girl had run into real trouble, of the 'Here Be Dragons' sort, but had come out whole and sound and perky as ever. Her AND her annoying partner!

Overhearing that last bit of conversation in the commissary, he seethed. 

"Sounds like another entry for the Guide, for sure! Can you believe it? HOW many of our people did we lose to that place??!"

"At least four, from what I heard, maybe more! Can you believe it? In New Jersey?? And we never knew???"

Now, seeing her walking down the hallway of The U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters, a little pale, perhaps, but with head held high, eyes calm, her irritating British partner at her side, he hated her even more. Someday. . . Someday . . .

Though, that would have to wait. He had a message that Waverly wanted to see him in his office. 

{"Wonder what the old fool wants now! Probably wants to puff off about how his protegee had located a danger spot the organization had been unaware of, but seemingly had been responsible for the destruction of a few other weaklings employed by The U.N.C.L.E. I suppose I'll have to look suitably impressed. At least I have a cover story about why I sent them there in the first place; I'd hoped not to have to supply one, but one must be prepared. One day I won't have to be subjected to his inanities, and won't THAT be the day!"}. He was always careful what he said out loud, but there was no harm in being totally honest with himself. It wasn't like they could read his thoughts!

Outside Waverly's office, he nodded briskly to a blank-faced Lisa Rogers, waited while she activated the door, and walked in.

"Well, now, old friend, I heard our Miss Dancer had a narrow escape. I do hope she's suffered no ill effects. Dreadful shame to lose her now, after all the work you've put in on her." 

His smile was all it should be. Somehow, the solemn look on Alexander's face wasn't quite what IT should be, though. He glanced around and was shocked to see his friend from the Psych unit sitting huddled, shaking, in one of the tall-backed chairs, looking at him with panicked eyes. There were stern-faced guards in the corners, Waverly's top two agents, Solo and that damned Russian in another, and he knew he was quite possibly in trouble. Well, a little quick thinking, a smile, some easy explanation, and his old friend Alexander would come around.

Whirling back to Alexander Waverly, he saw those cold eyes, knew he wasn't facing his 'old friend Alexander'; he was facing the head of The U.N.C.L.E's New York Headquarters, and for once there was no hint of warmth or forbearance in that bloodhound of a face. No, all that was there was the promise of retribution.

{"It's not fair, it's not fair . . ."} he repeated incessantly as he was taken by the guards to the deprogramming department. As they strapped him into the seat for the machinery to erase his every last memory of the organization he'd done so much for, his last conscious thought was, {"I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!"}. While they were able to erase his memory of the organization, whether they'd been able to erase his memory of her, his feelings about her, only time would tell.

 

Epilogue:  
In Mark and April's shared office, Napoleon and Illya joined in the conversation, the determining of how it needed to be pulled together, that cautionary entry for the Guide. They'd gotten the rest pretty much in line, the two younger agents appreciative of the help, since this was the first entry they'd be making pretty much on their own. Afterwards would be a celebratory dinner at Venara's, the four of them, but first they needed to get this last task completed.

"Well, Supernatural Presence, certainly, but I don't think we have enough information to call it 'UnFriendly'."

"Seemed pretty unfriendly to me, April," Mark retorted, remembering those instruments of torture, that boiling vat of oil.

"But more neutral, in a way, not malevolent," she argued. 

"Well, I'd say she had a decidedly negative outlook on things, luv!"

Neither of the senior agents had heard the details of those visions, of course; that was a private matter between Mark and April. But they'd heard enough to get the picture of what had transpired, what the threat truly was in that third story room of Cornerstone House. Erdu's reason for appearing was glossed over, well, fudged quite a bit. It was enough to make sure everyone understood a miracle rescue wasn't in the offing for the next who strayed into Maat's domain.

They finally come up with a new sub-category, Ω - Supernatural Presence, Not Overtly Malevolent But Highly Judgemental. Do Not Test! Avoidance Highly Suggested.

The entry when it was finally posted DID stress the presence of instruments of torture and a vat of boiling oil, just to further discourage the more adventurous minded.


End file.
